


The Promised Neverland

by Sheep_Dragon



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M, Nihlus Kryik Lives, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-14 02:48:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17500136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheep_Dragon/pseuds/Sheep_Dragon
Summary: It is said that the Neverlands are found in the minds of children, that the map of a child’s mind would resemble a map of Neverland, with no boundaries at all. Each Neverland is always more or less an island, they are not the same from one child to the next.Happiness can be found in the strangest of places. Nihlus just never expected it to be back in the arms of the man who would have murdered him and Garrus unexpectedly finds himself connecting with a father that he never really understood.Yet the crocodile’s clock is ticking.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the Six Months between Mass Effect 2 and 3.

Councillor Sparatus calls him into this office as soon as the Normandy leaves the Citadel space, on its way to Earth to deliver Shepard to be 'Relieved of Duty'.  
Needless to say, Garrus isn’t in the mood for bureaucratic tape as he prepares to catch a shuttle back to Palaven, mind and omni-tool stuffed full of data from beyond the relay, fully prepared to make some noise as soon as possible, even if he had to go to his father eventually to do so. His mind is a whirl of activity, desperately wishing that Shepard hadn’t been so damned noble in the first place. But then again, that wouldn’t have made her his Jane would it?  
The Councillor’s secretary flinches when he arrives, his secondary tone rumbling rebellious thunder and Sparatus himself seems rather taken aback when he is shown into the sound proofed room.  
“I’m glad I caught you, Vakarian.” The darker plated turian starts smoothly rising from his chair when Garrus doesn’t take the gestured seat before his desk, “I have some matters to discuss with you.”  
Garrus clenches his jaw, mandibles folding tight against his teeth as he flexes his hands, barely holding back his temper at the whole situation, yet nods stiffly in acquiescent.  
“This Reaper situation has been going on for almost three years now.” The older man starts, hands clasped behind his back, deceptively calm, light grass green eyes fixed on Garrus’ own icy blue, “The Council does not have sufficient evidence to believe in any of Shepard’s claims, yet I believe myself, practical.”  
“Practical?” Garrus asks sceptically, tilting his head in what could only be described as an avian manner, before throwing in a rather sarcastic, “Sir?”  
“Saren Arterius was locked up on Palaven for his crimes against the Citadel, the jury sighting insanity as his only saving grace. Some people have made it clear that if he had stayed on the Citadel, he would have been executed regardless, so I had to act,” Sparatus continues, dismissing Garrus’ probing with a narrowed gaze, “A Spectre may snap, Vakarian, but not to that extent.”  
“And you want me to question him?” the scarred male replies warily, looking rather confused at Sparatus’ story.  
“If this ‘Indoctrination’ is truly what happened to our most accomplished Spectre and if the connection IS to these ‘Reapers’” The Councilor replies, his fingers bobbing in the air quotes gesture he had somehow picked up, “I want to be fully prepared if the impossible suddenly becomes very real.”  
Garrus let out a low growl, Sparatus was a known schemer at the best of times, but to have a finger is so many pies, to borrow a term Shepard had used once, was rather damn impressive, “You said it yourself Sir, Saren was placed in a High Security Psychology Ward on Palaven on grounds of insanity. How can anything he says about Reaper physiology and indoctrination methods be taken as complete truth?”  
“Tell me Vakarian, has your father ever lied to your mother?” Sparatus asks almost conversationally entirely flipping the conversation on its head, looking entirely to smug with himself, leaving Garrus feeling rather chaffed at the insinuation.  
“Never.” He replies resolutely, offended on his father’s behalf that he would even dare hide anything from his bonded. Turians bonded for life and to lie to your bonded was something that even turians that ended up on the wrong side of the law balked at, hence why mating was reserved only for someone that you were one hundred and ten percent was ‘The One’, “What does that even have to do with anything?”  
“Arterius had a bonding mark on his throat when medical teams checked him over.” Sparatus says, vocals humming a soothing note to cool the younger man’s rising temper, “We traced dental records on the Citadel and within Spectre ranks.”  
“I’m assuming you found a match?” Garrus asks wryly, crossing his arms in contemplation, wondering who would be mad enough to tie themselves on such a level to Saren of all people.  
“Dental imprints match the tooth configuration of one Spectre Nihlus Kryik.” Sparatus reveals with an underlying irritation that makes the grey plated male pause, icy eyes narrowing darkly.  
“So, we have a dead Spectre bonded to an insane one.” Garrus concludes with a snort like it’s a set up for a bad punchline. “I fail to see your grand plan Sparatus.”  
“Nihlus Kryik’s deceased status was… hastily applied.” Sparatus says delicately, “Nobody expected him to survive the operation that ended up saving his life. His condition declined, yet he continued to live in a comatose state and was moved to Cipritine Central along with other high priority Intensive Care patients when Sovereign attacked the Citadel. He woke up a month ago and has been spoon fed information at my behest until I could find a way to… diffuse the issue. Now that you are back and are no doubt going to go straight to Primarch Fedorian to rattle his cage about these Reapers, Nihlus may be able to get Arterius to give us all the information we need to potentially neutralise these beasts.”  
“For a man that believes Shepard was talking nonsense, you sure are being awfully helpful.” Garrus observes suspiciously.  
The Turian Councillor smiles, mandibles twitching smugly, “If this does go to ‘hell in a hand basket’ as your human is so fond of saying, Vakarian, let it never be said I didn’t at least try to help.”  
“So, all of this is just because you don’t want Shepard in here saying ‘I told you so?’” the younger male growls, furious at the sheer audacity, but is halted when Sparatus holds up a hand to stop his potential tirade.  
“Spectre Nihlus Kryik is under your jurisdiction until further notice. He is to extract information from his former mentor and mate, former Council Spectre Saren Arterius by any means deemed necessary. Do I make myself clear?” Councillor Sparatus states, formal and powerful with no hint of give in his voice.  
“Crystal. Sir.” Garrus replies, hands dropping to clasp behind his back, fists curled in disgust.

\---Palaven---  
One Month Prior  
Cipritine Central Hospital

The first he becomes aware of, is light.  
Really, really annoying light that is searing his bleary eyeballs, forcing him to clamp down his eyelids like a pressure seal and groan in mild pain at the sensory feedback.  
On top of this pain, rumbling around his head like a drunk Krogan, is a very noisy rhythmic beeping that is three seconds away from being on the end of his pistol like Saren's old alarm clock.  
“...Kyrik.” A voice rumbles, Turian dialect, with the posh twang of a Cipritine accent, which he tunes into as he lolls his head to the side in an attempt to escape the bright lights above him, mentally praying to the spirits that Saren doesn’t have to come and bail his ass out of trouble again if this situation isn’t half as hopeful as he thinks it is.  
“Mr. Kyrik, I need you to open your eyes, the lights have been dimmed.” The female, still blurry as he blinks to clear the fog from his half reclined position, the strip of light above now no longer stinging his retinas, tells him with gentle commanding authority.  
He wants to tell her that his last name is actually hyphenated now, Saren’s mating mark imprinted onto the soft dark mahogany flesh of his throat, though their paperwork hadn’t exactly been a priority at the time, but his voice comes as a raspy wheeze, his eyes rolling around the sterile room in a sudden panic. Where was Saren? He had been right behind him, surely whatever had taken him out had surely done the same to the other Turian.  
“You were injured very badly, Mr. Kyrik.” The doctor is saying casually, wandering away a little with her sub-harmonics singing a soothing note that all doctors seemed to use when they understood their patient was a bit of a wild card. “Please calm down, your heart rate is jumping to alarming levels.”  
The grey plated female with violet striping marks across her face pads towards him with a cup of ice chips, shaking the tumbler and picking a random one up to show him before placing it in her own mouth to defrost.  
She had clearly patched up paranoid Spectre’s before, he noted, wincing as he raised a hand for one, finding it shaking like a leaf, his dark talons way longer than he usually kept them.  
Nihlus took a deep centring breath, his panic fading as he focused on his pulse, quickly throwing the ice chip into his mouth so that it could soothe his parched throat.  
“What happened?” He rasped, the words catching in his vocal chords, his usual voice scratchy and weak, “I was on Eden Prime, last time I checked it was a corpse field. Where am I?”  
“You are on Palaven.” The doctor says, standing at his bedside, checking a tablet with a distinct air of professional courtesy, “You were brought in after the Citadel was breached.”  
Nihlus remained silent, bewildered on how exactly the Citadel could be breached and why taking him to Palaven had been even a remotely good idea in the first place since he and his mate lived on the Citadel, “What aren’t you telling me?” He accused, emerald eyes narrowing with a fresh ire.  
“You just woke up from a coma sir.” The doctor soothes obtusely, placing the pad back at the end of the bed, “You’ve been slipping in and out of consciousness for several days. Please try to get some rest.”  
The door hisses shut behind her as she leaves, his gaze tracking her movements right up until the door obscures his view, catching her momentary pause as an armed guard returns to his post.  
“That isn’t suspicious at all.” He grumbles to himself, closing his eyes briefly to centre himself as another flash of pain races across his skull, soothed only by what he assumes is some sort of pain medication being pushed into his veins by a nearby drip. “Get it together Nihlus.”  
The russet skinned Turian reopens his eyes and lifts a hand not encumbered by medical sensors to examine, wincing at how long his talons have gotten, wondering if it was an oversight of some nurses to let them grow or if they were regularly trimmed on a schedule. He tilts his head to the side, only now just noticing the rather picturesque view of the hospital gardens in the light of Palaven’s sun.  
“What in Spirit’s name is going on?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus arrives on Palaven and runs right into his first hurdle, while Nihlus gets himself into some good old mischief of the Spectre variety.

The shuttle docked at the port with nary a fuss on Palaven, releasing Garrus into the balmy heat of his silvery home world with a deep sigh, shouldering his duffle bag of belongings, tasting the crisp dry air. As he jogs down the steps of the arrivals area, fully intending to head for the nearest hotel, he realises that he hadn’t bothered notifying his family of his return to Palaven, his mind a whirl of tasks that needed completed before he even thought about the logistics of navigating family politics.  
So, it is with a great surprise and a small squeak of involuntary mild terror that, mystifyingly, Castis Vakarian is standing glowering at him at the exit foyer like some paranormal demon that had sensed his son’s arrival.  
He winces, head bowed guiltily as the blue glower intensifies when he approaches, the older male standing slightly into his space like he was some criminal his father had hunted down.  
“Don’t ever do that again.” his father says, dark like distant thunder, his undertone echoing crackling lightning, “Do you hear me Garrus?”  
“But Shepard…” he tries to start, but his father leans closer still, seeming to loom, eyes narrowing further so they are bright cerulean slits, laser focused on his wayward son, an old C-Sec intimidation tactic that Garrus is privately kicking himself for getting cornered into.  
“This has nothing to do with Commander Shepard.” Castis growls irritably, lifting a hand and prodding his youngest child in the chest, mandibles flared, “Don’t ever get into a situation like the one you were in the last time you called home, Garrus. Ever. Do you hear me?”  
“Dad, you’re drawing a crowd.” Garrus mumbles, eyes having shifted anywhere but at his father, realising that several members of the public in the shuttle port were sneakily watching his rather humiliating dressing down. “Can we talk about this somewhere less likely to be picked up by local gossip tabloids?”  
Castis, for all of his legendary stoicism, gives a very audible growl, which booms like sniper rounds, their audience jumping at the powerful rebuttal and scuttering on their way. “You aren’t getting out of this. Solana is rather vexed at you as well.”  
“I’d say that’s an understatement, coming from Sol.” Garrus says quietly with a wry trace of humour, “How’s mother?”  
The paler turian sighs, the fight seeming to leave him as he tilts his head to examine the son before him, “She comes and goes.” Is all he replies, beckoning Garrus into step with him, hands clasped behind his back as he serenely strides for the exit, various security personnel inclining their heads respectfully.  
During his travels aboard the Normandy and even his time in Council Security, he had forgotten that the Vakarian’s were a prominent, high tiered clan, long having served the Primarchs of Palaven as Advisors in some capacity or another and it all comes reeling back to Garrus when he spots the respect his father wields, even without his infamous C-Sec years to back him up.  
“I’m guessing Councillor Sparatus told you I was coming home?” he asks, settling into the passenger seat of the sky car, his father sliding into the driver side with a grunt of old bones protesting, “I was going to just get a room somewhere and drop by once I’d seen to an errand he has lumped me with.”  
“Solana hacked the shuttle manifestos and set up my onmi-tool to ping when your ID cropped up on one inbound.” Castis replies in mild frustration fingers tightening on the leather of the steering wheel so much that material creaked, the aura of wanting to strangle something lingering about him, “You are staying at home where I can keep an eye on you. Besides, your Grandfather and your Aunt and Uncles have been hanging around much more than usual, you can run interference for a change while I spend some time with your mother.”  
“Guess he’s still pissed that mother chose you to inherit the Clan over her brothers and sister?” Garrus snorts in amusement, though he tilts his head back into the seat, “No rest for the wicked huh?”  
Castis simply hums an agreement, “What is it that Councillor Sparatus wants you to see to?”  
“Remember that whole Saren fiasco two- and a-bit years ago?” the younger man asks, side eyeing his father who nods, watching the traffic for his next turn off towards the Vakarian home following the winding routes that lead to the more deserted outskirts of Cipritine. “Well turns out he was incarcerated on grounds of lunacy and shoved into Cipritine Central’s Secure Psychology Ward for his own protection. His mate, another Spectre named Nihlus Kryik, survived his assassination attempt and was moved here to Palaven when the Reaper breached the Citadel. Sparatus wants to use Kryik to get information from Arterius and has sent me to be, I guess, a discreet way of getting it done without involving the ‘proper’ channels.”  
“Reapers.” Castis states neutrally, mind whirling suspiciously as his son tenses, “Garrus…”  
“You want proof, I have it.” Garrus assures, voice flanging in perfect harmony, betraying his solid conviction, “We are on a countdown dad, I mean to prepare Palaven as much as possible and Saren may have some vital information that only Nihlus can reach in that scrambled head of his.”  
“So Sparatus hopes to manipulate their bond.” Castis notes, voice reserved but there is an underlying distaste at the idea, “An under handed tactic, but an ingenious one.”  
“I was given a visitation pass for Nihlus, I’m supposed to be there when they break the news that he has been comatose for over three years, despite him having been lucid and going through physio for the last month and a half.” Garrus sighs, running a hand over his fringe, watching the cars around them dwindle as they leave the city centre and slink their way through the suburbs, “It’s going to be a damn mess.”  
His father sighs, lifting a hand from the wheel hesitantly and resting it on his wayward son’s shoulder, causing Garrus to jump in shock, “You can only prepare son. For now, see your mother and sister. We can see to this Spectre Kryik tomorrow.”  
“Sounds like a plan,” the younger man nods, quirking his mandibles in nervous smile when he spots the Vakarian home come into view, “Think Solana will give me a hug instead of punching me straight off the bat?”  
“I’m a retired C-Sec Officer son, not a miracle worker.”  
Garrus sighs theatrically, managing to draw a tiny amused trilling pop from his father’s sub-vocals, turning his gaze to what could only be described as a small manor. It was of old-style architecture, with sloping lines and curved edges with a garden out back covered in a blooming array of flowers and fruit trees his mother had cultivated with the military precision of a drill sargent. The building had been in the family for generations, during every high and low the Vakarian’s had been through and renovated to match. It had seen his first ancestor toddling through its halls and it would likely continue to see more when Solana managed to find herself a man that didn’t turn out to be a complete tool.  
Solana isn’t waiting for them when the Skycar touches down and Garrus can’t help but be relieved as he follows his father through the front doors and into the grand hallway of his youth.  
“It’s just like I remember.” He comments in awe, gawking like a tourist in his own childhood home, taking in the muted silvery wood panelling, a colourful tapestry his ancestors had woven of battles won and lost at the end of the hall and a crystal chandelier still dangling as the centre piece of twin stair cases leading to the upper floors.  
“It was simpler for her to remember where everything is.” Castis says softly, hands clenching uselessly at his sides as he stares forlornly around at the place, “When… when she used to wander by herself.”  
Garrus couldn’t help but wince, pulling his singular duffle higher up his shoulder as he follows his dad through the house, memories coming to life before his eyes of happier times with every room and grand sweeping window they passed.  
In his mind’s eye, he sees ghostly images of himself as a toddler running shrieking down the halls with Solana in pursuit, his mother and father sitting on the swinging love seat out in the garden, hale and whole as she nuzzles her husband while Solana and Garrus run wild between the trees. He smiles to himself fondly as they pass the old nursery, a traditional room with its walls inscribed with a branching family tree that sprawls backwards across time. It causes him to let out a deep contented hum, yet it fades as his dad slows, sure strides faltering as he reaches his own marital suite.  
His father hesitates, a brief indecision flashing across his eyes before indicating for him to drop his bag at the side of the door, knocking upon the polished wood with a knuckle and entering with a soothing thrum of his vocals, “Aurelia?”  
“Cas?” a soft whispery tone asks in return, giving him pause from the strong tones he had expected from childhood, “My heart, is that you?”  
“It’s me, Aura. I’ve brought somebody to see you.” His father replies, love in every syllable, so odd and different from his usual tight vocal control, “Garrus?”  
Taking a deep breath to centre himself, like lining up a mark in his scope, he walks into the room. 

Cipritine Central Hospital  
Secure Ward 

It takes him several weeks, almost a full month of frustration and dead ends, but walking no longer feels like sharpened needles are stabbing him every time his feet touch the floor.  
His recovery time is closely monitored, a silver plated nurse that is slowly becoming mentally reduced to his ball and chain watches him like a predator most days, her wide gold eyes taking in every time he so much as twitches towards anything he is ‘not ready for’ and vampirically sucking out every ounce of fun he can make of himself, which usually ends up with her helping him off the nearest floor he had collapsed onto after pushing his new level of ‘fitness’ a little too far with sour glances and irritated muttering.  
The worst part of the whole thing is the regular hydrotherapy. It’s a relatively old brand of treatment, yet many Turian’s aren’t exactly fans of it thanks to their less than stellar natural buoyancy, but it works wonders on muscle restoration so he is forced by the resident Doctor to attend the hospital’s therapy programme, Ball and Chain often having a mean pleased glint in her eyes when she announces his next session after catching him trying to pop wheelies in his old rickety wheelchair. He’s seen interrogators less enthused than her as she lists off all of his appointments.  
Nihlus realises that he is given carefully redacted information through the various tablets he is given to occupy himself. There is never a date on any of the newspapers he requests, their information bland and rather fluffy in comparison to the conversations the pair of guards at his door have when he lurks near his closed door to eavesdrop. They rarely go into detail, probably aware they have a high security patient despite his light-hearted shenanigans, after all, he used to be a pretty famous Spectre. All of his contact requests are denied, even the ones to the Councillors themselves.  
He was never a tech wizard by any means, but Saren, Spirits bless his perpetually grumpy heart had sat him down early on in his Spectre training, thrown a mountain of technology manuals and a broken terminal at him with most sour growl he had ever heard a sentient being make. In no uncertain terms he was told to rebuild the computer and hack into the Spectre bank account before he was allowed back on missions. Needless to say, it took him quite a long time, having known only the basics of computers. With the pale man’s disappointed clucking in his ears every day he failed, he had eventually swindled the Spectre Department of their figurative lunch money with a clever little backdoor programme, yet in the years after, he had kept his skills polished to Saren’s ridiculous standards and this, thankfully, is more than enough to hack his hospital door.  
It’s the middle of the night when he makes his attempt to get some proper answers, now strong enough to make it down the corridor without breaking into exhausted panting when he walks, cursing the fact he can’t incorporate the wheelchair into his plan, the creaky contraption far too noisy to traverse the silent halls in the gloom of the night.  
The unfortunate sucker at his door is relatively new, probably just out of the military, young and most likely waiting for his next rotation, filling his free time with a temporary security job. Frankly a bit of an asshole, yet it probably doesn’t justify practically choking the kid into unconsciousness with a garrotte made from some tubing he had sequestered away the last time he was snooping about the nurse’s station.  
It takes all of his weak strength to hold the kid down, having lured him in with a quiet call for help, belatedly making sure to leave him alive after having locked the smaller male into a specific hold that inhibited his movement, locking his arms down by his sides with his legs as he snapped the tubing around the oak plated guard’s throat and pressed down on his windpipe, fumbling around the boy’s cowl in an effort to keep him silent as he struggles. The strain leaves him gasping beneath the guard when he finally goes limp, tipping the heavier man away, rolling to his feet with a groan of pain as the back of his head flares with the beginnings of a migraine at the return to the rush of action, the throbbing leaving him stumbling against the nearest wall, jaws wide and gasping. He narrows his poison green eyes, the world going fuzzy at the edges, leaning heavily on the pastel coloured wall washed out in the light of Palaven’s moons, sliding along the cool surface towards the nurse’s station. He needs to phone Saren, Avitus, heck, even Sparatus would do, anybody that can tell him why he is off the information grid and nobody has come for him.  
He doesn’t realise Ball and Chain is sitting at the desk in the dark until she is flipping closed an old-fashioned pocket watch, almost as if she had been timing him. The clicking noise makes him jerk away from the communication terminal he had been about to hack into, a threatening, instinctual growl rippling into his vocals, a dark smile twitching across her mandibles as he shoots her a look of disbelief when she doesn’t react to his posturing.  
“I must say, Mr. Kryik.” She coos in civil amusement, edging on the verge of sharp, on equal tone with the one she uses to tell him of his Hydrotherapy sessions, “I expected you a lot sooner than this, clearly you aren’t recovering at a suitable rate.”  
“Hey, what can I say?” he replies, voice nonchalant and jovial as if he hadn’t just struggled down the corridor after choking his night guard unconscious, his undertone rippling with dark promise of pain should she come anywhere near him, his talons, recently trimmed back to his usual length, curling in warning. “I’m a grand disappointment.”  
“That I do not doubt.” Ball and Chain smiles pleasantly, “I must ask you to return to your room, Mr. Kryik. You have a visitor coming tomorrow. Or measures will need to be taken to keep you here.”  
“Oh yeah?” he snorts, crossing his arms in an attempt to intimidate her, unimpressed, sharp teeth bared. “You and what army?”  
The last thing he sees that night before darkness clouds his vision, is the innocent smile of the nurse as something sharp pricks at the soft flesh of his shoulder.


End file.
